(without) warning
by yadon
Summary: I warned you about him. Diego Armando would break your heart. [Past!Mia/Lana, Miego; T for mild sexual references. Written for 8/27 - a.k.a. Diego-gets-poisoned Day]


I warned you about him.

Diego Armando would break your heart.

Maybe I never said it in that exact way, but it was always implied.

And I would know. What it takes to break your heart.

* * *

I suppose it's easy to dislike someone when their job is to do whatever they can to impede your own success. The opposition. Which, you are too.

But back then, you were just an intern, an assistant. Not _technically_ a defense attorney. Yet.

So, on that technicality (and nothing more, I kept telling myself), I couldn't find it in me to view you as the rival. The enemy. I saved all that animosity for Diego.

I probably would have found any excuse to be repelled by him, but he made it easy.

How, when I was a witness, he'd slowly sip his coffee and stare at me in that condescending way of his, saying I was wasting his time with, as he'd put it, my "twisted view of events."

The cross-examinations, the _tone_ he took, like I was some plaything for him to bat around for amusement. That I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know – but he had plenty to relay to me.

Or even at crime scenes, ordering me and the other officers to pack it up and move along (as if he had any authority) – that he didn't want our dirty hands tainting the details.

And yet, with all this disdain he apparently harbored towards me and my "side", he had the gall to flirt with me at any opportunity. I soon discovered it was less actual designs on me, and more a ruse to antagonize Neil, whose brother-like protective nature towards me had always been transparent.

(I shouldn't be asking promises from you, but I made you guarantee no matter how heated it gets in court between us, that we won't stoop to immaturely prodding each other like kindergartners, like those two.)

Ultimately, as much as I couldn't stand all his actions, I was able to ignore them when it came to life outside the courtroom. I could ignore Diego Armando and his frustrating existence, except for one little thing.

The way he looked at you.

And it's a sunny March day– you're still reeling from the aftermath of your first trial and I thought a Sunday afternoon out along the pier would do both of us some good – when you tell me the news.

You can't ignore it either.

* * *

I do my best to bite my tongue, but less than a month later, I make it known what I think of him.

You just smirk (in a way I never saw before you met Diego, and I hate to think of anything involving his mouth affecting yours) and shake your head.

"He's not like that, Lana," you insist, not whiny and pleading, but confident. Almost arrogant. "He's different."

 _Different than what?_ I want to ask. Than what I think of him?

Or what you know of me?

And not for the first time (or last, I'm sure), you see straight through me, and answer what's being shouted by my stony silence.

That around his family, he's different. You've never seen someone so gracious and respectful, towards the uncle who instilled a hardened work ethic and the aunt who gave him the dogged take-no-shit attitude Neil and I hated squaring off against.

Around Mr. Grossberg, and Mr. Hammond, too. Ever-willing to play errand boy for them even now, after having established his own career. He'll always bend over backwards, stay long hours, to help the men who gave him a chance when no one, professionally or otherwise, would.

His mother too, bringing flowers to her grave every year on her birthday, as he has for the past seventeen years.

What am I supposed to do with this information? I can't congratulate you - I should, for _moving_ _on_ when I gave you no other choice. And while I don't think you're lying intentionally, I can't accept what you've witnessed from Diego is the truth, either.

All I can do is say, "I swear, if he hurts you-"

"He won't."

"Mia...he's..." I begin, unable to finish with the first word that comes to mind.

 _Trouble_. But if there's anything you can handle and handle _well_ , it's trouble. Any other attorney would have walked away after what you went through in your first trial. Not you, Mia. Of course, not you.

You're not only adamant about marching on, but ready to charge full-sprint into the fire, Diego's hand in yours the whole way, to see that Dahlia Hawthorne gets what's coming to her.

That doesn't mean I'm willing to see you get burned. That's why I relinquished my hold on you in the first place. "I'm just saying, if he _does_ hurt you, I'll-"

"Strangle him?"

"No. Well..." Maybe. It's tempting. But I wonder why the suggestion is made without hesitation. If you're experienced in contemplating what should be done to those who screw you over romantically.

I don't realize I'm touching the scarf around my own neck at first, but then I drop my hand away, and try to keep my voice from betraying the emotion whipping around inside me. A professional detective (and lawyer) sticks solely to the facts. They must. "I'll be there for you, okay?"

How empty these words must sound, after how I outright _refused_ to be there for you. But this time, I mean it, and I internally beg for you to believe me.

You pull me close in a one-armed hug, and a chaste – platonic – kiss on the cheek. "Yeah. I know."

You mean it too, your tone solid with the unflinching conviction that turned my head the fateful day you audited my class.

It's the one piece of the Mia I met four years ago that's still recognizable.

You're no longer the girl almost criminally incapable of living on your own, who relied on my mix of quiet faith and firm veracity after eye-reddening hours of studying and essays and being on the losing side of mock trials made you wonder if you were cut out to be the ace defense attorney you vowed you'd be.

Because you've told me all these things about Diego that make him different, but the truth shining from your smile and your eyes tells me you're the one who's different now. You don't need me to be there for you.

You're the one who's grown, shifted into this warrior carving your own path and not letting things like suicidal defendants or bitter ex-girlfriends stand in the way of the justice your family and their name deserves.

I'm the one who's unchanged.

* * *

Testimony is nothing without evidence.

I need to see it for myself, and so I accept one Saturday when you invite me to the coffee shop he (and now you) frequents.

I remember when it was you and I out together on early summer mornings just like this one. A damp heat creeps across my body, a cool snapping breeze providing mild relief.

I miss having someone to share both that heat and relief with.

I'm the one who told you (sometimes more _bitching about_ than telling) when we were in college and I worked part-time at the cafe a few blocks from your dorm, to always pay attention to how well your date treats and tips the servers.

That it says a lot about them.

Diego tips the baristas (well). Takes his americano with that - fine, I'll admit it - winning smile, even though he has to wait a little longer than he should.

I suppose it says a lot about me, too, that even though I know it's a positive gesture, all I care is that it's damning to my own case.

There's a small booth in the corner, the perfect fit for our trio. I sit across from Diego with my hot breakfast tea, and you're wedged between us with your – much to my surprise – caramel latte.

I've seen you drink coffee maybe twice. For you, it's tea, always tea. You had never even _tasted_ coffee until you started law school; they didn't allow it in Kurain Village.

Actually, _many_ things are not allowed, I learned, for women in line to the Mystic title.

But you went off to law school and tried everything the Kurain considered off-limits. Coffee. Alcohol. Kissing and caressing and having premarital sex with your female classmate.

Only one of those things became a habit.

And eventually the one you broke all the rules for and with was the one who decided they needed to be enforced. For your own good.

I guess you've traded one taboo for another.

When conversation begins, I expect it to be tenuous at best, but it's surprisingly... _bearable_. Engaging, even. The two of you regale me with a story about your recent date at the aquarium, about convincing Diego to sit in the splash zone for the Orca show. A kind of easiness sinks in as the two of you take turns stitching the anecdote together, and where twenty minutes ago I wanted to finish my tea as quickly as possible and rush off, I now want to just sit here and savor it all morning long.

As the talk detours to places to visit around the city in general, I mention that I've been entertaining the thought of bringing Ema (or, "my sister", I say) to the aerospace center some time later, in fall, after she's further into Astronomy course.

It's Diego who looks right at me and asks if Ema ("That's the little geek's name, right?") is taking it as an elective or a required class, since he's never heard of a kid her age _choosing_ to take extra science classes.

Normally, I would bristle at such a label tacked onto my younger sister, but there's an unfamiliar inflection in his voice. The only way I can describe it is, a willingness to actually _listen_ to my reply, and not just use my words as a springboard to get in what _he_ has to say - what he thinks I need to hear.

On a whole, there's been an edge missing from Diego today. None of the derisiveness I hear when he addresses me as " _Detective_ Skye" nor the sneering laugh he uses when referring to Neil as "Tex" or "Dumbass" or a dozen other terms.

It's with the earnest interest in his question that I realize his rough exterior has been smoothed out. Or, more accurately, stretched between the two of you, that it's now shared and less acute in Diego himself.

So I talk a bit about Ema and her aspirations, which leads to you lamenting how long it's been since you've seen Maya, and Diego's just starting to explain how he's planning on renting a small private yacht for his aunt and uncle to spend their upcoming wedding anniversary out on the ocean, when you interrupt by standing up and shouting towards the shop's entrance.

"Mr. Hammond!"

This must be the main haunt for the members of Grossberg Law and their family, which makes sense since the office rests less than a mile away. I recognize your co-worker when he acknowledges us with a cursory wave, and I assume the middle-aged blonde woman with him is his wife.

"Watch this for me!" You set the latte in front of me, snatch up your purse and all but climb over Diego before making your way over to the Hammonds. Are you expecting Diego to just swipe and chug it during your absence? Somehow I can picture it happening.

I take a sip, wondering what exactly it is that changed your mind. It's sweet and creamy and sits warm against my cheeks and all I can think of is your thighs the night before I graduated.

"Delicious?" Diego's gaze hovers on me as he takes a long drink of his americano.

I set the cup down, examining it as I avoid answering his question with one of my own. "Things are getting serious, hm?"

"Coffee. Law. Women. I take all things seriously, Detective."

"I must say, I'm truly amazed you've made her cross over to the dark side." I fiddle with the string of the teabag I've long since removed.

"Is that what I am?"

I try not to take after him, to sound like I'm sharing anything particularly important or confidential, but I can't help the pride coating my words, as if I'm the only one who's ever been special enough to be privy to everything that makes you _you_.

"I mean, that's what she considered coffee when we were in college. She gave it try, but she just couldn't stand it. All she drank was tea, tea and more tea. We had enough loose-leaf tins to construct a small kingdom."

"Mm, or a queen-dom, with you two as the rulers? Side by side?"

His dark eyes twinkle with the self-assuredness of having the upper hand, and the pronounced curve of his mouth deserves to be smacked right back into the flat uncertainty that would give _me_ the satisfaction I know he's enjoying right now.

Which is why his matter-of-factness takes me by surprise; I really do anticipate more gloating as he continues. "The world isn't divided into coffee drinkers and tea drinkers, Lana. Some have a taste for both, like Mia."

"And she's told you this?" I'm positive he's bluffing, trying to get me to crack. You know how resistant I am to divulging anything about myself others might consider outside of societal norms, and I want to think you'd have the courtesy to comply to that.

"Well, not in so many words, exactly. It's obvious she's always had a predisposition for coffee's intoxicating charm." He's looking beyond me – at you - and I don't blame him. "I didn't _make_ Mia do anything. I'm sure you know already, a woman like her can't be taken anywhere she doesn't already want to go."

It occurs to me, delayed, that he addressed me by my name, for the first time ever. I don't know what it means – that we're on closer terms now?

That I _mean_ something to him? "Something" can be anything, a lot of anythings.

He always has to get the last say. "But from what she _has_ told me, all that tea got her through some rough nights in law school. Second-year midterms, she made specific mention of. "

Our first kiss.

There's a heavy silence – not uncomfortable, just _knowing_ (he knows, and I know he knows, and he knows that I know that he knows...) and it's broken when you reappear at the booth's edge.

"Hey." Your gaze slips between us, a curiosity you quickly opt to push aside. "Sorry, I just wanted to catch Mr. Hammond since he's on vacation next week. I owe him twenty bucks for us pitching in together for Mr. Grossberg's birthday present."

Diego sighs dramatically, unlidding his drink to check for any precious last drops. "Please tell me we're not going with the yellow lava lamp from that catalog he's always paging through? The one with useless junk that 'reminds him of the days of his youth'?"

"Well, what else do you suggest? And don't say a bulk supply of Prepara-"

"We can discuss this later, Kitten. I think your friend's ready to go. I am too." Diego stretches, over-exaggerated, like he'd really have us believe he's still in the process of waking up after having downed his americano, and who knows how many cups before it. "Ah, half a Saturday at the office awaits."

He stands, as do I. Watches you. As do I.

"Ah, half a Saturday in my pajamas on the couch awaits!" You mock him both in tone and in action, adding the cheerful laugh that still make my insides tighten.

Yeah, I remember those. Maybe that should be my half-a-Saturday, too. For myself.

I thank you both for the morning camaraderie, well aware I've had to swallow so much more than tea. And somehow, all that's gone down hasn't necessarily been unsettling, but I need time to digest it all before consuming any more.

Not having foreseen being out this long, I stop on the shop's front step so I can dig out my cell and let Ema know I'll be home soon – possibly with some Up-and-Down Burger.

"Later, Lana!" You call, and I pause, glancing up from my purse, not (too) shocked or wounded by what I see.

His arm is wrapped strong around your waist as you head down the sidewalk. It's a simple show of the security I was too afraid to give you beyond friendship. It's what you deserve: a partner willing to move forward at your side when you wasted so much time with someone going in the opposite direction.

You lean in against Diego and bring the latte to your mouth. I drop my head, throw my tea in the nearby trash can, and walk the other way to my car.

* * *

You ask if I'm busy Monday night but already know the answer.

Monday is grocery night – always has been, back to our college days. For a good stretch of time, it was our date night too.

Two women in their early twenties – what could be more romantic than browsing the produce section and making lewd jokes about the vegetables?

I wonder when you grocery shop now. If you bring Diego along.

But you want to know, because you need something to keep you busy as well – you don't know what else to do right now. You're antsy and distracted and just need companionship.

For good reason.

The she-devil who destroyed your first trial – Diego finally got ahold of her. They agreed to meet at the courthouse this afternoon, but now it's evening - _night_ , really - and you're wondering what's taking him so long. I advise that the wait _could_ be a good thing – perhaps it's in the police's hands by now, and he has to stick around.

When I have to decide on ice cream toppings, though – that snaps you back to reality, and you become intent on helping me choose. I've picked up a gallon of rocky road for Ema – she's nervous about starting middle school next week, and I want to cheer her up. Food has always been the perpetual mood-lifter, for both us Skye women.

You suggest some fudge syrup, and I tease you – how you'll pair chocolate syrup with _anything_ ; that doesn't make it the best fit. I laugh, remembering how you'd squirt it into your mouth straight from the bottle.

Better than boring ol' vanilla and no-toppings-at-all, you needle back.

And then your phone rings.

The look on your face suggests this isn't Diego calling, and the distinctive clearing of the throat I can hear through the other end confirms it.

Within seconds, you're frozen in place, unconcealed horror and confusion preventing your reply to Mr. Grossberg. But you're fighting through it (you've always been a fighter, Mia), your mouth slightly parted and trembling.

No words come out, and I can hear Mr. Grossberg repeating your name until you end the call.

"Mia?" I reach through the stillness for your arm.

Just another mistake on my part.

The shriek that rips from you is inhuman. You stagger to the side, hand flying to the shelf for support but instead knocking loose several jars of strawberry syrup.

"Mia..."

The jars crash to the floor, and you follow. Smashed to pieces.

You pitch forward, crying shamelessly and your palm lands in the puddle of syrup and glass. You might have cut yourself, but you don't notice.

How could you feel any more pain right now?

I don't need you to say who it's about, but you do, his name an ugly moan scraped out through all the sobs. Something about poison. About Dahila Hawthorne.

I drop down alongside you, knees in the syrup, and circle you in against me. Your mouth is hot and wet through my shirt and your teeth dent into my shoulder as it muffles your screams.

My own tears dampen your hair as I hold you tighter, whispering your name over and over because I don't know what else to say.

I just want you to know I'm still here. Like I said I'd be.

When your heart broke over Diego Armando.

* * *

 _I wrote this for August 27th, aka Diego-gets-poisoned day, and decided to bring it over her from ao3. A lot of this is steeped in the headcanon of a "prequel" that would feature defense attorney Diego and his assistant Mia Fey vs rookie Neil Marshall and detective Lana Skye (pre-Gant partnership). But anyway, I love both the pairings in this (Miego is OTP though) and I wrote this with the idea of how our worlds always seemed to be turned upside-down so suddenly, when we're just going about our lives doing mundane things._

 _Feedback is always appreciated :)_


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